“I can do that,” Saneter said. “Surely you want to be here to welcome your brother after three Turns’ absence?”

“Oh, I’m not hanging about while they pretend to be shipfish,” Sharra said with a negligent wave. “They won’t come in until they’ve half drowned each other. And I can see that Master Rampesi’s launched his dinghy. There’ll be messages for you to sign for, Saneter. They’ll be here long before my brothers.” She turned on her heel toward the hold’s cool caverns, and Saneter made his way to the harbor stairs.

Sharra knew her brothers well, for Saneter and Master Rampesi were exchanging greetings before Toric and Hamian hauled themselves, laughing and breathless, out of the water. Toric had lost his bad humor in the exercise and was grinning broadly as he watched his younger brother strip sodden shirt and pants from a big frame made more powerful by three Turns of smithcrafting.

“You were enough of a threat to the girls before you went north, Hamian,” Sharra yelled, throwing down dry short pants. “Have the goodness to cover it decently before you get up here.”

“Sharra, my lovely. I’ve brought you some samples of northern men. Maybe one you’ll like,” Hamian shouted at her and ducked as she lobbed a ripe redfruit at him.

“Any likely ones among the passengers?” Toric asked as he wrung the water out of his own brief garment. If Hamian worked as competently as he looked, he would be well worth the marks his absence had cost the hold.

“Half dozen maybe,” Hamian replied, losing the width from his grin. “I did my best to leave the scum. I’ll be fair—Master Rampesi and Master Garm wouldn’t have some of them aboard. We picked the likeliest. There was supposed to be a dragonless man.…”

“Dragonless?” Toric stared at his brother in dismay. “Benden Weyr?” Though he still respected them, Toric was at odds with the Benden Weyrleaders over many of their decisions. He relaxed visibly when Hamian shook his head.

“No, from Telgar Weyr. A blue rider. The harper said that a heavy tangle caught the dragon on the left side. Somehow he managed to land with G’ron, his rider, but the man’s riding straps had been scored clear through, and he hit the ground so hard they thought he was dead. There was nothing they could do for the blue. He went—” Hamian broke off. He had seen good dragonriders in plenty at Telgar Weyr over the last three Turns, counteracting his experiences with the Oldtimers, so a dragon’s death was a felt loss.

Toric said nothing until Hamian, in a swift change of mood, turned apologetic. “Look, I know we didn’t get the quality of settlers we need, but they’re all able bodies. Some of ‘em had journeymen’s knots and a couple were apprenticed to trades. I’ll take ‘em all with me to the mines and work their butts off. If they don’t like it, they’ll be far enough away from here not to bother you. In fact,” Hamian said, his smile a fair match for Toric’s at his slyest, “I’ll take anything that can breathe and walk to get those mines started. We—” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with such a resounding smack that the noise startled those struggling to step to the pier from the rocking cockleboat. Five fell into the water. “We will also teach you how to swim!” he finished unexpectedly, grabbing the nearest floundering man by the shirt and lifting him easily out of the water. Then, when Toric shoved him toward the steps, Hamian bounded up to wrap powerful arms about his sister and swing her about in an exuberant embrace.

“How’s Brekke? Did you see her? Mirrim? F’nor?” Sharra was asking with what breath the crushing hug had left her.

“I’ve letters for you, and I just gave you one message from Brekke. She said she needed numbweed the most and were you going to harvest soon.”

“Good, I shall supervise that myself!”

“And make a side trip down to your lake again,” Hamian teased her. “Catch any new sports? No? Well, then—” He hooked an arm about her shoulders and started for the caverns. “F’nor and Canth were at Big Bay to see me off, so all news is fresh. Mirrim’s a pain in the neck, but she’ll change if she lives and has her health. And,” he added, lowering his voice for her ears alone, “I also saw Mother. She still won’t come though Father’s dead more than three Turns. Brever would no more leave the Crafthall to hold here under his younger brother than I could swim the Currents. Our other three sisters won’t leave her, though I tied very hard to get them and their husbands to come. But they won’t if she won’t, and she won’t if they don’t. It’s all very well for Toric to want all his Bloodkin here—but if he thinks he can trust them all on that score, he’s wrong. Frankly, I don’t think any of them would do well here anyhow.”

Saddened by the thought that her mother would never live in Toric’s beautiful hold, Sharra leaned her head against her brother’s broad powerful chest, sea cool from his swim, and walked with him in silence for a few moments.

Toric had been the first to leave the family’s High Palisades seahold. He had left the lonely island off the western side of Ista and gone to the mainland, out and about and away from the hard labor of the Fishercraft. He had been in Benden Hold when F’lar had become Weyrleader and turned back the Lord Holders’ attack. For perhaps the only time in his life, Toric had acted on impulse and had presented himself as a candidate for Ramoth’s first clutch. Disappointed in that wish, he had volunteered to follow F’nor in founding the timed Weyr in Southern, and had remained on when that project had been abandoned. Once he had established, with much hard work, his hold he had come back to Keroon and talked first Kevelon and Murda, then Hamian and Sharra into joining him. Their mother had been proud of Toric’s achievement, but not of her children’s desertion.

“Would she change her mind if Toric becomes official Lord Holder? D’you think then she’d forgive him, and us, for leaving Father?” she asked softly.

Hamian cocked his head down at her. Sharra was tall for a girl, but she was dwarfed by her huge brother. “There’s not much activity on that score, Sharrie. Lord Meron of Nabol’s dying, and though he’s got Bloodkin enough, there’s going to be a real ruckus over that succession. No time to be upsetting the incumbents. What’s the matter?” he asked when Sharra began to shake her head.

“One day they’ll be sorry. One day they’ll see their mistake in not confirming him, in leaving him out of the Conclave.”

“Sharra, he is Lord Holder in all but title,” Hamian argued. “And that’s not today’s good news. There’re a couple of good honest Masters come to join us.”

Sharra’s hazel eyes glanced at him with irritation, and she ducked out of Hamian’s embrace. “Not you, too. I tell you, Hamian, if you’ve said one word to anyone, especially Toric…”

“Me?” Hamian reared back, hands warding off a blow, his expression one of amiable surprise at her reaction. “I assure you I learned my lesson before I went for my mastery. Southern Hold women marry when and where they choose.”

“And Toric had better remember that!”

“With you reminding him whenever marriages occur, how could he forget? Now,” he said, blocking her not-so-playful blow, “can I please have something to take the tang of sea from my throat? We’d rough enough weather crossing the Currents that I shouldn’t have to take the rough of your tongue the moment I climb the steps home!”

“Ramala’s been squeezing fruit since I went for your shorts. And look, here’s Mechalla to greet you. Bring her with you.” Grinning slyly, Sharra slipped away from her brother’s side to allow the first of the girls who had grieved at his departure to flirt with him on his return.

No one clouded that evening with any mention of the morning’s meeting with the Weyrwoman; the entire hold immediately got to work to settle the newcomers so that all could enjoy Hamian’s return. Even the scruffiest of the new arrivals, having survived Toric’s scrutiny, were determined to make the most of so much food and honest hospitality. Even Saneter put aside the thick rolls of messages, most of them dealing with the exiles, to enjoy roasted meat on the strand.